


The First of Spring

by TheDameintheRaininMaine



Series: The turn of the seasons [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Domestic Fluff, F/M, Road Trip, Sister-Sister Relationship, anyone who might interfere in this nicer world?, diverging in the middle of season 1, elopement, how do bad things not happen?, karma plague, karma plague!, minor bran/meera
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-12
Updated: 2019-06-27
Packaged: 2020-05-02 07:27:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 14,869
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19194406
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheDameintheRaininMaine/pseuds/TheDameintheRaininMaine
Summary: She knew she shouldn't be doing this, knows she should say something, but she looks at her sister and can't help herself. Spring is coming.Or, in a world where fewer horrible things have happened to the two of them, Sansa Stark helps her sister elope.





	1. Chapter 1

Sansa will tell a single small lie to everyone after. She realized something was up with Arya very early. 

They really should have all suspected something when Arya didn’t object to returning to King’s Landing. Sansa even did. The first visit had been exciting, even if it had ended poorly. Their return to Winterfell had felt to Sansa like waking up from a lovely dream, but there was no way they could have stayed with the horse cough sweeping through the city. 

So many people died. And it didn’t discriminate. Peasants, merchants, the king’s very household. The king had been spared, but his wife and eldest son hadn’t been so lucky. Sansa had been inconsolable when she’d heard. Her perfect story, ruined. She ignored the relieved look on her father’s face. When they’d returned, their mother had hugged the both of them tightly and gave thanks to every god she knew for returning them to her. 

It was recognized, eventually, as the start of winter. 

Winterfell gets blanketed in snow. Northerners know how to deal with the cold, they always have. Sansa sits closer to the fire during needlepoint, and Arya scampers through the halls instead of the fields and stable. Sansa begrudges her this less now. She’s had her own experience with seeing something beautiful and it now being forever out of reach.

When the first blizzards of winter clear, they are called back to King’s Landing. Sansa is disquieted, not sure what to expect, but to her surprise, Arya doesn’t object at all. She’s nearly passive, packing her things, then repacking them when Mother criticizes her technique.

They’re all together this time, traveling more slowly for the weather. Mother comes with them this time as well, telling them that she’s not comfortable with them leaving her sight. Robb and Bran look lonely, but certain, behind them as they leave Winterfell. 

One night, Sansa finds Arya standing outside the ramshackle inn staring off into the woods. She opens her mouth to tell her to get back inside, but stops when she sees the look in her eye. 

“I keep thinking that if I stare out into the trees long enough Nymeria will be there again”. 

It hits Sansa like a ton of bricks. This is the same area, probably the same inn, where it had happened. Honestly, most of the road looks the same to Sansa. The anger swells up in her chest again. It’s been over a year, but the injustice still eats at her. Her and Arya haven’t spoken about it, even when they see Bran with Summer or Shaggydog by himself betraying Rickon somewhere unseen.

“If she came back, I would share her.” Arya looks inexplicably childish now. “It wasn’t fair, any of it. Lady wasn’t even there, Cersei had no right.”

And suddenly, Sansa feels just as childish as Arya looks. Deep down, her gut still cries out that it was all Arya’s fault, even though her mind has slowly come to accept that it really wasn’t. When the plague came, suddenly the fairy story Sansa had built up about their time there just melted away. 

“The Queen is dead now,” is all she can say. And she didn’t even have it in her to curse her properly for what she had done until she was. She had somehow managed to twist it in her mind that it was somehow acceptable for her to have done it even. 

“I wouldn’t want her, “ she says, a bit haughtily, “She was your wolf, and she rolled in the mud even more than you.”

The retribution for this slight is the realization when they step back inside the inn, that both her and Arya have mud on their shoes. Sansa returning to her usual fastidious self and lambasting Arya for it.

King’s Landing is different. It had been hot before, but this time, while it can’t hold a candle to Winterfell, there’s a dusting of snow over the grounds, though the days are usually cold and clear. 

The hall of the castle feel cold and clear too. The illness wiped out a good deal of the household staff, and they are clamoring to find replacements and keep up with the workload. 

Myrcella walks the halls, looking like a ghost. Tommen is usually right behind her. He had been seriously ill but had miraculously pulled through, and the stress has robbed his cheeks of much of their plumpness. 

Sansa minds her manners, gives her condolences, and doesn’t say another word. 

“I wonder how the king’s doing?” Arya wonders. 

“He lost his wife and his eldest son. I can’t imagine well.” True, neither of them had ever seen Robert spend any real time with Joffrey or Cersei. They hardly see Robert at all during their visit, Father saying he spent most of his days drunk, though now he seems to be trying to numb himself rather than give himself life. 

“If Mother and Robb died, I don’t know what Father would do. I don’t know what I would either.”

The thought pricks at Sansa’s heart. The idea of seeing her father in such a state is horrific. 

It’s a weighty thought. Though, in winter, there are still some pleasures to enjoy here in the south. One day, after a particularly heavy snow, Myrcella invites them to come on a sleigh ride outside the castle grounds. Arya, of course, doesn’t show up. 

“What does your sister do all day? I never see her,” Myrcella comments, leaning on the edge of the sleigh as the groom hitches up the horses.

Sansa shrugs. It’s not her job to keep track of Arya’s movements, and Septa Mordane seems to have nearly given up. Mother’s been spending her days trying to assist Father with bringing Robert around, and barely notices Arya as long as she’s back for meal times. 

“Probably with her dancing master, or bothering someone in the stables.” she pauses. The first one doesn’t work, Syrio Forel having returned to Winterfell with them the first time, and is still there as of now. “I think she might even sneak out and go into King’s Landing some days”. 

“Oh, that probably explains why her breeches were muddy yesterday, “ Myrcella comments idly, “She brought me an apricot tart, so I didn’t tell anyone.”

Sansa’s shocked that Arya would so do something so dangerous and flagrantly against the rules, but when she confronts her later, Arya just shrugs. 

“There’s lots of ways out of the castle, there’s tons of secret passages. Besides, the city is much quieter now, there’s more room it seems. The baker I bought the tart from said more people are trickling in.”

And so, despite her admonitions, Arya continues to sneak out and spend every few days in the city. Sometimes she comes back even dirtier than usual, but she’s always unharmed, and manages to return on time, though Septa Mordane scolds her repeatedly for missing lessons. 

But, a few weeks pass, and Father and Mother say they will return to Winterfell. They’ve convinced Robert to name his brother Stannis as Hand of the King, and feel like it’s a good time to go home. Arya isn’t around to be told, but Sansa promises she will prepare her sister for it. 

When she finds Arya, she’s in one of the large hallways. When she notices Sansa, she nods, before running past her. 

“Gotcha!” she yells, jumping onto the edge of one of the staircase bannisters and grabbing onto a small cat. 

“What in the world are you doing?” Sansa demands, befuddled.

“Catching Ser Pounce,” Arya says, as if it’s the most normal thing in the world. “He got out yesterday and I brought him back, so Tommen said I could use him to practice.”

She hoists the cat higher in her arms and pets him on the head. 

“But let’s get you back to your prince now.”

Tommen doesn’t seem perturbed at all by his pet’s condition, and accepts him back happily. 

Suddenly Sansa recalls what she was supposed to be finding Arya for. 

“Father says we’re returning to Winterfell at the end of the week.”

She’s not sure what surprises her more, Arya’s look of disappointment, or Tommen’s disappointed words. 

“Oh, I’m going to miss you. It’s nice having other people here.”

Sansa’s suddenly at a loss, and so reverts to her courtesies.  
“I’m sorry, you must miss your brother terribly-”

Before she can even mentioned the Queen, Tommen cuts her off. 

“Not really. Sorry, I know you wanted to marry him, but Joffrey was the meanest person I’ve ever met”. 

Arya gives her a look that makes Sansa think she wants to say ‘I told you so’, and Sansa feels the urge to yell at her, but it seems they’ve both become better at controlling themselves. 

“Once he took my cat and shot it for fun. It was going to have babies, he didn’t care.”

When Sansa and Arya leave the hallway, Sansa has her hand over her mouth, but they daren't speak of Tommen's words. Well, Sansa daren't. She's convinced herself, really she had. Even after Lady, even after what everyone told her.

“I’m sad we have to leave, “ Arya comments, “I’ve got friends here.”

“We’ve got friends back home” 

Arya pauses a long time before agreeing. 

And so, they return again, to the North and the blizzards and the glowing hearth fires like nothing’s changed. Sansa’s as devoted to her lessons as ever, though her fantasies have been spoiled. Arya’s as disinterested as ever, but she’s not as hostile. 

It’s as though seeing the world around her gave her confidence that she could free her restraints. 

But for all the girl’s lives seem to go back to normal, their father seems preoccupied. He spends much time having hushed conversations with Maester Luwin and eyeing the sky waiting for ravens. Sansa’s not sure what’s up, and hopes it’s nothing dangerous. 

It’s apparently stressful enough that one night during supper he groans and rests his face in his hands. Sansa and Arya both sit up straighter. They’d quarreled earlier about Arya borrowing one of Sansa’s furs without asking so she could go riding in the cold (“You don’t even wear it anymore, it’s got a hole!”) and worried now that Mother had burdened him with it.

“Maybe I should have stayed. Mediating Robert and Stannis...it’s like dealing full time with you two,” he gestures to Arya and Sansa, “Only you’re both grown men who have an army.”

“Robert and Stannis aren’t your worry anymore,” Mother assures him.

“But I do. Robert’s never been in the greatest of health, and Stannis is clearly still feeling slighted.”

“And the winter is cold and should give them time to reflect.”

Sansa’s brain wanders off at this point. Sometimes she wonders if she should pay more attention. Septa Mordane may tell her that her duty is to be a Lord’s wife and mother to his children, but from what she saw in King’s Landing, there is clearly more to it, and her lack of knowing could be dangerous.

That night, she hears a noise outside of her chambers. Sticking her head out, she sees Arya sitting in the window between their rooms that looks out over the forest. She’s got her furs wrapped around her over her night dress, and though the night is freezing, it’s clear and she doesn’t appear troubled. 

“Arya you should be in bed”. 

Arya’s voice is oddly quiet. 

“I know, I won’t be long.”

Sansa pulls herself up onto the ledge. She gazes out the window. It’s a beautiful night, clear, with a huge full moon and bright stars. If it weren’t so cold, it would be the perfect night for a stroll. 

“Do you think we’ll still fight when we’re grown up?”

Sansa’s taken aback. 

“Mother always seems to tell me that we’ll get along more when we grow up, but we already are, and it doesn’t feel like we’re getting more alike. And she never sees her sister at all.”

Sansa finally finds her words, 

“We’ve gotten better at avoiding each other when it matters. This morning aside, we don’t fight much anymore, you haven’t thrown food at me in forever.”

“I didn’t mean that to be personal, I was just mad you were fawning over Joffrey like an idiot.”

Sansa chooses to ignore that. 

“You’re right thought, we should try and get along. We’re both going to be ladies after all.”

Arya snorts. 

“Everyone can say that, but I’ll never be a lady. Even if I get married off to some drunk old lord twice my age, I’ll never be able to be what they want me to be. Even if I did want to be, I’m not good at any of it. That’s you.”

Arya jumps down from the window. 

“But I don’t want to end up like Robert either. He’s the king of the Seven Kingdoms and still squabbling with his brother like a child.”

And with that, Arya stands up and returns to her chambers. Sansa stays for a moment n her spot, gazing out into the winter night. 

The winter days are feel long, and the weeks and months longer. Clearer days have snow fights and winter rides. Days heavy with snow bring thick stews and roaring fires, and songs and stories to try and hold off the raging of the winter wind. During those days of blizzard, Arya finds the only reprieve in the handful of letters Jon has sent from the wall. 

Six moons or so after Arya’s fourteenth naming day, Winterfell has a series of clear days that seem to go on forever. Old Nan calls it a “little summer”, and tells everyone to make the best of it. 

During the first days of this little summer, a stranger comes to Winter Town, and Father says all the children should come to greet her. 

The stranger is a girl Robb’s age with dark hair and blue eyes, who comes up the Kingsroad on a mule, leading a team. 

She introduces herself at Mya Stone. Sansa bristles at the name, recognizing it as a bastard’s name, like Snow.

“Why’d you come up here during the winter?” Arya wants to know, petting one of the beasts on its face. 

“I’m from the Vale. My team and I lead people up to the Eyrie, but in the winter there’s not too much call- too treacherous even for us. Your father wrote and requested my team come to Winterfell to help with transporting goods from White Harbour.” 

She feeds her mount a carrot as a treat while she unsaddles him., 

“You might like riding one,” Arya tells Sansa. “They’re more solid than horses and won’t even try to do anything dangerous”. 

The beast is a bit smaller than the rest of the steeds in the stable, so Sansa agrees, and the two sisters help Mya bring her team to the stables. It’s true, she does feel more sure in the saddle than usual. Sansa would be the first to admit she was a poor rider. 

“Mules aren’t generally good for beginners,” Mya tells her as they dismount. “They are hard to train. If they think something is unsafe, they straight up won’t do it, and if you try to make them, they will remember.” 

“Well, “ Sansa says, her feet a bit wobbly. She’s never like the smell of the stables, but in the winter it’s not so strong. “Good thing I wouldn’t ask that of them.”

Mya’s not the only stranger who comes to Winterfell that season. Soon, there’s a new kitchen maid with a young daughter. Rickon takes a liking to the girl and seems very confused as to why she can’t chase after Shaggydog when she’s barely toddling. 

When Father takes them out to greet the next, a blacksmith, Arya hangs back a bit from the rest, to Sansa’s confusion. Shy is one thing Arya has never been. Even when they all enter the smithy, she stands close to the door.

Though when they meet Gendry, Sansa understands why she might be. He’s tall, and broad in the chest, with dark hair. He’s fairly soft spoken with the group, not seeming entirely sure why he’s there. Father shakes his hand, then moves to start returning to the keep. 

Arya hangs back again. Intrigued, Sansa hangs at the door. She sees Gendry hand Arya something wrapped in a cloth. She can’t see what it is, but it makes Arya smile and laugh. 

“What is that?” Sansa butts in when they get back to the castle and are close to alone. 

Arya unwraps it and shows it to her. It’s a hair pin, made of curling scrap iron, beaten and shaped to resemble a wolf’s head. It’s not the greatest bit of smithing Sansa’s ever seen, but since Arya immediately separates the two parts and slips it into her hair, it must have meaning to her. 

“Why did-” is all Sansa can say. 

“He was one of the friends I made in King’s Landing. He was an apprentice in Flea’s Bottom then. I think he used to think I was annoying, always hanging around when he was working. Then one day someone on the street stole his bundle, and I chased and got it back for him. He didn’t complain much after that. He said he’d make something for me out of scrap, so I could see how good he’d gotten, but we left before I even got to say goodbye.”

“You chased a thief!” Sansa says, horrified. “You could have gotten hurt!” 

Arya shrugs. 

“It was just a child, no older than Rickon is now. I just grabbed and carried him back like that. He was crying though, until I told him I wouldn’t tell the guards. I think someone older must have made him to do it.”

Sansa stands back alone to watch her sister. She’s gotten taller, and her hair longer, though in the leather’s she’s pilfered from Bran (though honestly, he’s too tall for them now anyhow) she still looks like a wild child to Sansa. 

But to someone else?

“Did he knew who you were?”

Arya shrugs again. 

“Father apparently came to speak to him once before, though he didn’t know why. He also said it wasn’t hard to pick out a highborn girl from a crowd, so I guess he put two and two together”. 

She looks oddly pensive. 

“He told me now that Father actually asked him if he’d ever wanted to learn how to swing a sword.”

That shocks Sansa. 

“But why?”

Arya shrugs again, “Can’t say, He wasn’t interested though.”

Gendry’s the last newcomer for a while. The little summer ends and the snowfall start back up. 

On the days when the snow isn’t too heavy, Sansa often finds herself with Mya in the stables. Her other siblings don’t care about the snow as long as they can see, and brave the whole grounds, but Sansa finds the comparative warmth of the stables inviting. 

And Mya’s nice to have around, when she is. Her trips to White Harbor happen during the clear days, though she tells her about the once her and the other grooms got stuck in the woods when it began snowing heavily. They’d been forced to shelter under a thick tree, with their animals forming a wall to keep the warmth in. 

“We were lucky it stopped that night, otherwise we might not have been able to get back”. 

Even though her stories make Sansa shudder, it’s nice having a friend close again. The past year, Jeyne Poole had wed a young knight who had just earned his spurs, and she had hardly seen a bit of her since.

One day, when they’re in the stables grooming the mules, she asks Mya if she’s always wanted to work where she is. 

“Didn’t you ever want to find true love and get married?” Is how she puts it. 

Mya laughs. 

“I thought I had true love once.”

“What was his name?”

Mya stares at the ground. “Mychel, of House Redfort.”

Redfort. Sansa doesn’t quite known the names of all the noble houses, but she does know this one, and suddenly she knows where this story is going. 

“He said we would marry, when he became a true knight. I believed him, and I think he did too. But then his father ordered him to marry Ysilla Royce, so the houses could be joined.”

Just as Sansa thought. It wasn’t fair. Even though she was a bastard, Mya was very nice and deserved to have been happy.

Mya laughs to herself. “I’ve always known I was a bastard, it never bothered me.” She finishes up brushing the mule she was working on, and pats it on the ears. “I remember my father coming to see me when I was young, though I don’t really remember him. Then he didn’t, and it was just me and Mother. I love the mules, and I love leading them, and helping people. I guess I just dreamed too highly.”

She looks at Sansa, who’s holding her bucket of grooming tools. 

“Doesn’t it ever bother you? That you’re getting married is treated like means to an end?”

Sansa doesn’t have an answer to that. Despite her love of the old songs, she’s not given any more thought to getting married herself since King’s Landing. No one wants to marry in winter anyhow, so the topic hasn’t really come up, but deep in her mind is the niggling fear that anyone who she became betrothed to might end up being another Joffrey. 

As the winter goes on, Sansa turns eight and ten, and Arya six and ten. On her naming day, Arya surprises them by asking for her gift that year if she could keep and raise one of the ravens from Maester Luwin’s newly hatched flock. 

Mother and Father agree, but seem as confused as Sansa is. 

“Sometimes I wish I knew exactly what was going on inside your sisters head,” Mother confides in her one day. She does seem a bit pleased that Arya’s desire was something more ladylike this year. Truly, Sansa has no more insight than her into Arya. She’s taken to disappearing from the grounds as often as she used to in King’s Landing. Sometimes Bran disappears at the same time, and she hopes that they're together, but Bran often returns alone with no idea where his sister has spent her day.

And Arya loves the bird, training it to sit on her arm like a hawk. She’s named it Lyanna, after their deceased aunt. 

“You know ravens can’t hunts like hawks and falcons can right?” Sansa asks her one day. 

“I know, but ravens are really clever, “ Arya says, feeding Lyanna a bit of corn. “Maester Luwin’s trying to train this flock to fly between two points, not just back to Winterfell. I wanted to help him.”

And so Sansa continues not understanding her sister. 

Near on a year later, while they break their fast, Rickon and little Barra rush in, being trailed by Shaggydog. They’re both clutching handfuls of the blue-purple crocus flowers that grow in the Godswood. Everyone at the table murmurs excitedly. 

The crocus flowers blooming is the first sign, Old Nan tells them, of the coming spring. 

That day, another stranger comes to Winterfell. Edric Storm is a tall, handsome young man who travels under the banner of Renly Baratheon of Storm’s End. Because of the coincidence, and because this guest will not be staying long, Mother and Father suggest a festival in the town over the next two nights, weather permitting. 

There is rejoicing in both the castle and the town. This winter had been long, and the North has little enough of the celebration as the rest of the Seven Kingdoms as it is. 

Food sellers set up stands, craftsmen set to sell their wares. There will be games and competitions that Robb and Bran are excited about. There’s a singer traveling with Edric who invites any musicians in the town to join him. Sansa’s overcome by the thought of being able to play her harp for the crowd. 

Even Mother and Father seem happy to have some merriment in Winterfell, at last as winter comes to an end. Everyone dresses in their best, even Arya (though when Sansa looks closely, she realizes she’s wearing thick leathers under her dress). 

The festival may be small compared to anything in King’s Landing, but to Sansa it feels far grander. She eats honey biscuits from one of the bakers, and cheers when Rickon wins the under-12’s pony race. 

She laughs when she walks outside the smithy, and finds Arya and Bran, both in boiled leathers, going back and forth with swords in front of a crowd. Gendry’s speaking to a few of them, while his master works the forge behind, extolling “fine craftsmanship, good enough even for a Lord’s children.” She hopes they won’t get hurt, but it doesn’t look like a true fight. In fact, it almost looks practiced, like a dance. Maybe that’s where the two of them have been doing when they disappeared together.

When night falls, and the lanterns are lit, Sansa joins the musicians, and they go through so many of the classics, “The Roadside Rose”, “Flowers of Spring”, and “Six Maids in a Pool”. By the time they stop, she feels more aglow than she has in years. 

While packing up her harp, Father approaches and asks if she can track down Arya before coming back. 

“She was with Bran last I saw,” she says, unsure if Father and Mother knew what the two of them were getting up to, “Does he know where she might be?”

“He says that last he saw her, she was by the smiths”. 

Everyone on the grounds is pretty much packing up to leave. It’s quite late, and Sansa’s not really sure where she even expects to find Arya. 

But the last place she expects her is tucked on the far side of the smith, locked with Gendry in a loving embrace, seemingly oblivious to the world. 

Gendry’s seated on the chair beside the emptied exhibition table, Arya half on top of him. Their faces are turned away from her, but are so close together they might as well be one. Arya has the fingers of one hand wrapped in his hair. Gendry has one slung over her shoulder and the thumb of the other touching the side of her face. Softly. 

She doesn’t really mean to, but Sansa lets out a squeak of shock that apparently is enough to break their trance. Arya, whose face is pretty flushed at this point (flushed? Arya?) goes white when she sees her. 

“Mother and Father want us to head back,” Sansa manages to get out. Arya nods wordlessly and Sansa turns to start back without looking either of them in the eye.

The walk back is completely silent. When they return, neither of them say a word to anyone, merely head into their own chambers to go to bed. 

When they reach the hallway, Sansa manages an “Arya…”

Her sister opens the door, and gestures with her head for Sansa to follow her. 

As soon as Arya closes the door, Sansa explodes. 

“Seven hells Arya, what are you thinking? What if Mother and Father find out!” There’s a bunch more she wants to say too, about irresponsibility mostly, and station, and how Mother and Father were going to have a hard enough time with her as it was, but Arya cuts her off.

“Well they haven’t found out so far”.

So far? How long has this been going on?

Arya takes a deep breath. 

“Can you keep a secret Sansa?”

Sansa is once again befuddled, and doesn’t remember saying “aye” but apparently she does, because Arya reaches under her bed and unrolls a bundle to show her. 

“Oh”. 

It’s simple, made of cheap linen that wouldn’t even be warm in spring. The wolf sigil rather more resembles a blob made of lines and points. The shoddy stitching is definitely Arya’s handiwork though, no one else’s. And it is without a doubt, a maiden’s cloak. And she’s clearly worked on it a while. 

“I had to hide it,” Arya tells her. She’s sat down on her bed and clutches the cloak on her lap. “Me sewing anything of my own volition would have alerted every single person in this castle.”

Sansa is genuinely speechless. When she finally finds her words, all she can manage is,

“I thought you never wanted to get married?”

Arya laughs. 

“Being a wife and being a lady aren’t the same thing.”

She sounds so certain. 

“So I take it you haven’t told Mother and Father.”

“I thought it would be better to ask forgiveness than permission. No matter how hard they must think it will be to marry me off, they would never let me marry a baseborn blacksmith, even if he was a king’s bastard.”

Sansa’s words are stolen again. “What?”

Arya goes a bit pale again. “You, you never realized?” Sansa shakes her head. 

“Not just Gendry, all of them. Mya, little Barra. Even Edric, but his mother was noble so he’s always been treated better. King Robert was never apparently a faithful husband.”

They…

Well, they do certainly all look alike. Thick black hair and startling blue eyes. Even Barra had tufts of thick black hair despite her mother’s tawny curls.

“How did you-:”

Arya ducks her head into her chest. 

“I heard Mother and Father talking. They said something about...about people wondering if Myrcella and Tommen were really the king’s children.”

Oh. That. 

It’s all too much. 

Arya tugs at one of the strings on the embroidered sigil. It really is awful. All these years, why did Sansa never offer to help her with her sewing? Truly, Arya probably wouldn’t have accepted. But still, she ought have offered at least. 

“Gendry says all he’s ever wanted is a family. His mother died when he was little. Back in King’s Landing I told him to come up north and we would be his family.”

“What did he say to that?” Back in King’s Landing Arya had just been a girl, and Gendry’s older than the both of them. 

She laughs, and kicks her feet. “He told me that if he did that all I would ever be was ‘Milady’. That made me so mad you wouldn’t even believe.”

Sansa can believe, completely and truly. 

Arya reaches back and touches her hair. Sansa notices she’s wearing the hair pin Gendry gave her those years ago when he first came to Wintefell. Gods above, even then?

“Do you...do you two have a plan?” is all Sansa can say. 

Arya nods. 

“Edric’s leaving in five days. We’ll go with him, Mya too. Barra’s mother didn’t want to go, she’s still too little, but the rest of us are going to Storm’s End. Edric says Renly Baratheon wants them there, that he considers them all family.”

“You’re going to elope?”

“Is it really eloping if you don’t leave first? There’s a Godswood here at Winterfell.”

The Godswood, so they’re….

“Just the way of the Old Gods?”

Arya nods. “I don’t really know much about the old and the new and all of that, but the Old Gods are Father’s Gods, the Gods of the North, so that feels right. Gendry says he doesn’t mind one way or another, but we might want to go in front of a Sept in Storm’s End just to be sure no one can say otherwise.”

Arya’s quiet for a long moment after that. 

“Will you stand in for Father, Sansa? I was going to ask Mya...but I want it to be you, if you will.” 

Sansa feels herself go red. Everything inside of her is telling her to say no, to tell Father and Mother, that Arya could be throwing her life away. 

But…

She remembers how Arya looked earlier tonight, in Gendry’s arms. Happy. And she remembers how Gendry had been looking at her. And suddenly, Sansa feels a tugging deep in her stomach, that she recognizes as envy. 

“Do you love him?”

Arya’s eyes go wide. 

“Seven hells, Sansa, do you think I would do this if I didn’t? I’ve spent my whole life being told that no one would ever want me how I am, and here I am, not only have I, but he’s managed to find me again through and through?”

Her voice quiets. 

“He asked me after my naming day. I wasn’t in a dress, my hair was a mess, and I had spent much of the day throwing snowballs at the outside of the forge. And he asked me after all that.”

The envy in Sansa’s gut is heavier than ever. It takes even more time for her to find her voice again. 

“Tell me what you need,” is what she says. She tugs at the cloak on Arya’s lap. 

“And let me have at this, but I can’t make any promises.”

Over the next five days, Sansa pulls out the worst offending of Arya’s stitches and renders the sigil as something more recognizably a direwolf. 

If it weren’t for Mya telling all the others that she was leaving with Edric, everything might have seemed normal. 

“It’s been the best, but there’s not much call for me here come the spring. Storm’s End is near the Red Mountains, I should be able to find good work there.”

Arya’s face is cool, unknowing. In another life, she ought to have been an actress. 

She occasionally has attacks of doubt. But Arya is right, Mother and Father had long bemoaned how difficult she would be to marry off. And really, it is terribly romantic. 

The night before, there’s drinks in the Great Hall to see Edric’s group off. They say they wish to leave before first light, to make the best time. Sansa thinks, that that will make it easier to Arya to slip among them unnoticed. 

She fidgets the whole night. She doesn’t understand how Arya can not be. Gods above, she’s even talking about helping Bran with his archery the next morning!

But late night still comes, and no one else is any the wiser. 

The castle is so still this late, Sansa thinks, as she stands outside Arya’s door. Not even any servants, they won’t come down here until it’s time to wake them in the morning. Arya soon emerges, holding her pack, and Lyanna’s cage, where the bird sleeps. 

The pack seems so small. 

“Do you have everything you need?” Sansa whispers. 

Arya nods. “Clothes, Lyanna, Needle. A couple things to sell if we need to. Edric’s been told, so there’s enough provisions for someone extra.”

She gestures. 

“Lets stop at the stable and see Mya first. I want to give her my things so nothing gets forgotten.”

It hits Sansa when they exit the castle (with near shocking ease) and creep their way to the quiet stables, that she’s losing her sister. For real. This has always been in the back of her head, that one day all of the children would marry and go their separate ways, but suddenly it’s real, and it hurts, and whispering to Mya makes tears run down her face. 

Mya hugs both of them, and then takes Arya’s bundle and Lyanna’s cage.

“Meet me with Edric’s entourage when you’re done. Everyone’s outside the hunter’s gate so they won’t have to go through town. The bridges are down now so we can leave on time. I’ll keep you to the middle, so you won’t be seen.”

And with that, Arya and Sansa leave her behind. 

Passing by the guest house is easy. Even if most of the guests hadn’t been sleeping or preparing to leave, the group is privy to their secret. The kennels is a bit tougher, they must be quiet so as not to wake any of the hounds. 

They enter the Godswood, and it is silent. The moon that night is full, and huge, but the canopy of trees is so thick it is nearly blacked out. 

“Does Gendry know how to get here?”

“I gave him directions the other night, and Mya led him in earlier when everyone was joining in the Great Hall. I hope he didn’t fall asleep.”

Sansa looks her sister up and down. She is wearing a dress, but layered over her leathers and a thick lambs-wool pullover. She said it was one less thing to pack, and they might not let her in the Sept in the south without it. Now that they can’t be seen, she’s pulled on the rough-sewn maiden’s cloak. 

Sansa reaches out to touch it. 

“You won’t have a gown….”

Arya fixes her with a look like she wants to call her a mean name. That’s silly of course, they haven’t called each other names in years. Out loud anyway. 

“That was you. Besides, I won’t ever wear this again after tonight.”

She does reach into a pocket and pulls out several rolls of paper, labelled to each of their family members. 

“Make sure we’re all gone before you give everyone these tomorrow. I hope I explained myself well. “

Sansa looks at them. Mother and Father, Robb, Jon, Bran. 

“You didn’t write one for me?”

Arya gazes at her. 

“I figured I would be able to convince you to help me pretty easily...you’re…”

“What?” Sansa asks, trying not to sound too cross. 

“A hopeless romantic.”

When they reach the black pool in front of the weirwood, and Arya spots Gendry sitting still beneath it, Sansa spots the smile that sprouts itself on her sister’s face. And admits to herself, that she’s probably right. 

Arya turns and suddenly hugs her fiercely. 

“I’ll write as soon as I can. Lyanna should be able to get back here no problem. And if me and Luwin’s training takes, she should be able to find her way back to me and the perch I made her.”  
Then Gendry notices them and stands, and Sansa suddenly feels as if she needn’t even be here at all. When she watches the way Gendry looks at her sister, a lump swells up in her throat and she feels as if she might not be able to do her part. 

But eventually she finds her words, and the three of them all manage the proper ceremonial words without stumbling too much (though Gendry nearly does forget his own name). Sansa asks Arya if she accepts Gendry, and she agrees, and the two of them grasp hands and kneel and Sansa can’t stop herself from crying at all. The tears blur her vision as the two stand and Gendry removes the rough cloak and replaces it with his own, thick and lined with fur, and Arya looks so much more like herself in it, that Sansa can hardly stand it. 

The two turn to her now, and Arya quietly reassures Gendry. 

“We’re family for real now, all three of us.”

And she reaches out to hug Sansa again. 

“You should start back now, or you might get caught.”

Sansa nods, still tearing uncontrollably. She can’t stop her next whispered question though.

“You haven’t already…”

“Gods no, I could barely convince him to kiss me. He was so sure someone would pop out of nowhere behind him and geld him for it.”

That gets her to laugh. 

Sansa lets her go and goes to embrace Gendry as well. 

“Be good to her or we’ll all set the wolves on you.”

Gendry laughs at that, but also looks suitably warned. Taking one long, last look at the two of them, Sansa finally makes herself turn and return to the castle, Arya’s notes clutched in her hands. 

When she’s nearer to the end of the clearing, she hears Arya let out a playful shriek. 

“Told you I could still pick you up like this.”

“I said that you shouldn’t, not that you couldn’t!”

And Sansa continues her walk back with a huge smile on her face. Old Nan was right, this winter was truly at its end. 

And spring was coming.


	2. The Second of Spring

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Read, reread and published part 1, then realized I had Bran still able-bodied. Oops. Well, lets say he went climbing somewhere else that day.

**Sansa**

Sansa expects anger the next morning, she expects disbelief. She expects someone (Father most likely, or maybe Robb) to have to be talked down from racing after them. 

Sansa does not expect this.

The day is clear, and warmer than it has been in ages. The snow on the stable roofs has begun to turn to slush, horses being led out taking time to try and lick at it before being pulled away. 

Everyone is energized by the sudden warmth, and this leads them all apart. Sansa doesn’t even see her parents while breaking her fast, and Bran leaves after only a few minutes to chase after Maester Luwin. 

It’s not even until the evening meal, when, during Robb and Father discussing road clearing, when Father suddenly stops and changes topics, 

“Has anyone seen Arya?”

Suddenly Sansa her face redden and her mouth force itself shut, while everyone else chatters

“One of the servants said she wasn’t in her bed this morning, but she does get up early sometimes.”

“Bran were you two causing mischief again?”

“No, I was with Maester Luwin all day.”

“I didn’t see her in town either,” Robb comments. 

“Sansa was she with you when you were with the Septa?”

Sansa shakes her head, still squeezing her mouth shut. 

They go back and forth for a few more minutes. It’s not even all that serious even. Everyone seems to assume there must be a reason. 

Then Father makes a move to call over someone to start a search, when Sansa can’t hold herself anymore, and lets it out. 

It’s not in words though. It’s a noise, like halfway between a sigh and a squeak. 

It gets everyone’s eyes on her though. Sansa doesn’t like it, she’s never liked being put on the spot, even for something good. So once she realizes everyone is staring, she reaches into her pouch, pulls out the scrolls and hands them out without saying a word. 

She’d sent off Jon’s earlier that morning. To her eye, it had felt the fattest, which made sense to her. Arya had always been close to Jon, she probably had a lot to say to him.

Robb’s isn’t too thick, and he’s always been good with his letters. Sansa can tell immediately when he’s finished reading, because he starts laughing. 

Hard.

No one else reacts though.

Bran is the next. Somehow he doesn’t seem too moved. He ends by setting it aside and returning to his dinner with a soft, “That explains a few things”. 

Mother and Father both take their time, and their expressions are solemn. 

Then Mother puts down her paper and cracks a smile. 

“Your sister could always be counted on to take things into her own hands.”

Father is the only one who looks pained as he finishes his letter, the longest one here. When he’s done, he sets it down on the table and rubs his eyes. 

Then he meets Sansa’s gaze.

“She trusted you with this?”

Sansa can barely convince herself to nod. Inside she’s all warm though. Arya had trusted her with this, and that felt terribly important. 

Father sighs. 

“Be careful what you wish for they always say.”

“We did so wish the two of you would get along,” Mother adds. 

Father stands, and gestures to Robb and Bran.

“The two of you, prep to leave tomorrow and follow them. I don’t want you to try and bring them back- not that I even think you could, you both know what your sister’s like when she’s made up her mind- but check on them. And once everyone gets to Storm’s End, try and get a feel for the going-ons there. See if you think Renly’s up to anything suspicious. There’s a few things I’d like to check into on the way as well, but I’ll bring you up to speed on those a bit later.”

Bran and Robb get up to attend to this. Robb looks dutiful, but Bran looks excited. 

“And Bran, when the two of you return, I think it’s time we discuss you becoming a squire.”

Bran leaves to follow off his brother suddenly looking as if he’s on cloud nine.

“Are you really worried that Renly might have some sort of agenda?” Mother asks. 

“Renly’s never feuded with his brothers; Robert and Stannis did enough for all three of them. But there are persistent rumours about him, specifically about his ability to produce heirs, so I feel it’s worthy to check up on.”

Sansa feels her heart sink. She had never thought this would be any bigger than just their family. She looks at Mother, who’s still smiling a bit, but also looks quite burdened. 

“Are...are you really not angry at her?” Sansa asks carefully. 

Mother takes a deep breath in. “Sometimes storms come out of nowhere. But sometimes you see them coming, dark clouds on the horizon and the smell of rain in the air.”

“We knew better than to promise your sister’s hand to anyone, especially without her consent. Her not being a firstborn made that easy enough.”

“You can prepare for a storm, take precautions. You can pray it will pass you by, but you cannot stop it.”

Well, that analogy seemed far too appropriate, considering where Arya was going. Sansa tries to pull up anything she knows about the Stormlands, and can’t recall anything other than them being known for being, well, stormy. 

“Though now it feels as though I invited the storm into the front door.”

And with that, Father gets up to leave, but Mother remains at the table. Neither her or Sansa has touched their roast pork. Mother lifts her fork and takes a bite. 

“I’m ashamed to say I never paid much attention to the boy.”

There’s a pause, and Mother looks at her long and deep.

“Did you? Did he seem good to her at least?”

Sansa nods sympathetically. “She told me she spent so much of her life thinking no one would love her without having to change herself, and that Gendry never once wished that of her.”

Mother breaks her gaze and returns to her food.

“Her naming day is in a fortnite. She will be seven and ten already. This game we play will take all of you from us at some point. I was so grateful for this winter, keeping us all together just a little while longer. But it seems winter too must end.”

Sansa and Mother finish their meal in silence, and Sansa leaves. 

Dwelling on her mother’s words, she is suddenly grasped by a thought that fills her with glee. 

Not only had Arya, wild, untamed Arya, gotten married, she’d been the first of her siblings to do so.

**Ned**

“Have you decided if we should do anything to punish Sansa?”

Ned was still sitting up though him and Cat had retired some time ago. The day had been long and was still weighing heavily on his mind. 

“I don’t see what good it would do. She’s never needed convincing to behave before, and I fear it might threaten her romantic heart.”

Cat was already stretched out in their bed.

“With spring coming, we should send out invitations to other families seeking matches for some of the others. “

Ned nods to himself, as mixed about the slow loss of his children to marriage as Cat had been earlier. 

Cat laughs to herself softly again. 

“I really was so certain Sansa would be first. If not her, Robb.”

“Arya befuddled all of us. At least we didn’t actually have to deal with Sansa marrying that Lannister brat.” 

Ned pauses, suddenly deep in thought. Then he begins to laugh uproariously. 

“I should write to Robert and tell him he got his wish. I’m not sure this is quite what he meant though.”

**Arya**

Dear Sansa

I’m writing along the road so I don’t forget anything. I don’t want to risk sending Lyanna before we reach Storm’s End. Without her, I won’t have an easy way to reach you. So maybe this will be more diary than letter. I’ll send it all at once. 

We’re just in the middle of the group, helping Mya keep her herd together. Edric is in front, and the rest of his guard behind us. I never realized mules could go so much longer than horses, you couldn’t tell by looking at them.

Gendry’s never ridden much, and you can tell. Thankfully, Mya’s herd is so sturdy, or I would fear him toppling out of the saddle. It would be awful for him to have to spend the rest of the journey stuffed into a supply cart.

I picked him a handful of snowdrops the other day. Where we are, they’re already showing their heads through the snow. We can sleep beside each other when we camp, but there are so many people we haven’t been able to lie together since the night in the Godswood. I guess we could, but it wouldn’t be worth the jeering, though part of me is so desperate for him to touch me I think I might have to. 

Seven hells, I’m starting to sound like you.

*

The birds are awake again, Gods above how I’ve missed it. We woke to them singing this morning, despite the remaining snow on the ground.

Gendry keeps asking me what I’m writing to you. Despite Father having made sure him and all his siblings knew their letters, I think it’s still a bit of a mystery to him. I almost want to make him write something to you himself. Father’s right, the vast majority of smallfolk being illiterate can only lead to others taking advantage. 

We’re getting close to Moat Cailin, it would be a good shelter but the snow is still so heavy upon its buildings. I hope Bran takes the time to look at it, he always loved the stories about first First Men. 

I really hope they’re not trying to be stealthy, because one of the guards told us we were being tailed the second day, and soon after gave us a description. 

*

Wasn’t able to write again until we got through the Neck. It rained the entire time that we were on the causeway. A couple of times we stopped hard when Mya’s mules wouldn’t go another step until it slowed a bit. Stubborn as a mule indeed.

It’s spring for sure here though. I don’t think most of these trees are the kind that ever lose their leaves, and their all as green as can be. Flowers in all colors too, peak up through the swamp waters, and along the sides of the causeway. 

Gendry asked me about the people who live here. I told him what little I knew of House Reed and the crannogmen. How they hunted frogs and fished to survive, how they were still fierce fighters who were hard to conquer, and how a single graze with a poisoned arrow could fell a grown man. He just gazed out over the swamp and said it rather looked like one of the hells. I told him others had probably said the same of Winterfell. One of the other guards kept making japes about mudmen. If only I could make him regret that. Father always spoke well of Howland Reed. Gendry bristled at the jokes too. He’s a bit sensitive at people being made a joke of just for the fact of their births. He and Jon would have much in common. 

The rain doesn’t let up at night, but someone in Edric’s caravan had the foresight to pack lots of oilcloth. There’s no real way to keep a fire going, so our camp is always dark. The storms combined with the cover they give, and the darkness of the trees has given us the first semblance of privacy since Winterfell. 

This last morning before we passed through the end of the Neck, it was only raining lightly. The early morning sunlight was just barely making its way through the tree canopy, and the rain caught some of the light in its drops. It made for a strangely beautiful morning. Mornings like this I could understand being a mudman, rowing a boat through it’s waters, no matter what the world thought of me. 

Then Gendey rolled over underneath my arm, muttered something about when we’re going to be getting out of here. Apparently he doesn’t appreciate being wet. 

I wish I could tell Robb and Bran to be careful. If the rain keeps up the way it’s been, the causeway could wash out. 

*

The inn at the Crossroads is a nice break from sleeping on the ground. 

It wasn’t terribly full, so Edric treated us all to mead, and his singer sang a few rounds. Everyone was happy. I’ve never realized, but it’s really much easier to get to know people when you’re dry and warm and well-fed. Edric’s a bit dramatic to be sure, but he spins a good yarn. Honestly, you would probably find him intriguing, but we’re already sisters, so I don’t fancy you marrying my husband’s half-brother. 

That seems to be the high point for Gendry. Father bringing him to Winterfell not only led to him finishing his apprenticeship somewhere nicer than Flea Bottom and getting something resembling a formal education, but also gave him an actual family. 

There’s even more, Edric says. More than him, and Mya and Barra. As far as the sources he’s followed has been able to find, Robert fathered at least ten more bastards. Gendry officially has more siblings than I do. 

It’s wonderful having an actual bed to ourselves too. More details to tell you, but you’ll have to visit for them, I’m not writing them down. 

 

*

We’ve reached King’s Landing, and the skies are now mostly clear almost every day. I was hoping that we might be able to avoid having to pass through the city itself, but the roads around it are still flooded from the spring rains. 

Gendry’s been a bit cross about it for a few days. Bad memories he says. King’s Landing, to him it seems, is just memories of crushing poverty and his dead mother. Maybe I’ll sneak off and get us a couple of apricot tarts to bring up his mood.

We did have a very interesting encounter with another group of travelers leaving the city while we were still camped outside the walls. Jamie and Tyrion Lannister, traveling in the very early morning, with both Tommen and Myrcella. Ser Pounce was even napping on Tommen’s shoulder, though he’s not as spry looking as he used to be. We didn’t exchange much more than casual greetings, but Myrcella did get to tell me that it was decided that her and her brother would be better off in Casterly Rock for the time being. Suddenly I remembered that rumor I told you about, and I hope nothing bad happens to them. Neither of them deserve it. 

Also, Tommen’s taller than me now. If you’re fine with being surrounded by kittens, you might still get a chance to wed a prince.

The route through the city didn’t take us through Flea Bottom thankfully, Gendry was really quiet the whole day. He barely even nibbled at the tart I smuggled him.

At night when we were camped outside the gate, he whispered to me that the times I used to pester him in the streets while fleeing the Red Keep were often the sole bright moments in his days. 

The guards say there’s no more sign of our tail. I hope Robb and Bran are well. 

*

They’ve build a bridge over the Blackwater Rush. I wasn’t looking forward to the ferry, and neither was Mya’s herd. 

Edric says we’re really close now, a few days away. And all of a sudden, I’m nervous. Neither Gendry nor I have ever met Renly before, we only know him by reputation. Edric tried to put my mind at ease, saying Renly was very far from serious about anything, much less scheming and trickery. 

And then Gendry pointed out that as a blacksmith, he can work pretty much anywhere. He told me that if we had to flee, it wouldn’t be the end of the world. 

I swear Sansa, some days I really still can’t believe he actually loves me. 

**Robb and Bran**

The causeway had washed out. Badly. When the two of them had tried to ford through the riding water, Bran’s horse had become spooked and bolted. Robb has chased him into the marshes, and the two of them had become lost. 

“What should we do?” Bran asks, seeming frightened and young again. His brother was nearly six and ten now, but once again sounded the role of the youngest child. 

“We have to get back to the Kingsroad, it’s the only safe passage through the Neck”. 

They do their best to follow the sun to find their way, but the canopy disguises it. And soon the rain begins to pour down even more heavily. Robb is beginning to despair.

Eventually they come to an area where the ground is fairly solid and covered by enough trees to be drier than what’s around it. 

“We’ll stay here tonight. Try again in the morning.”

The ground is too soft to camp, so the two of them eat on horseback, and Bran volunteers to take first watch. Before Robb makes to try to sleep, as best as he could on the back of his horse, Bran comments. 

“Going to be really mad if we go through all of this and Arya attacks us as soon as we get there.”

“Arya won’t attack us unless we try and take her home. Which we shouldn’t have to. You’ve spent time with Gendry, yes, he seemed like a good man to you right?”

Bran can agree to that. 

“Still seems strange to me. I could never picture her in love, or as a wife.”

He also didn’t really understand what Gendry had seen in her. 

“I could never picture it for any of you, you all seem so small to me still. “

“What about you?”

“Women are great, but I’ve never met one I wanted to spend all my life with.”

“That’s because you only meet girls with Theon.”

After that Robb finally manages to drift off, Bran stares off into the murky green-black darkness. It’s the strangest place Bran has ever spent the night, and he’s not sure he’ll be able to sleep when his turn comes. The swamp, rather unlike the forest, felt alive all around him, as if it had a blood and heartbeat all it’s own. There were chirps and squelching wet noises coming from things he could not see, and Bran feared something else would spook his horse. 

After some time, he feels like his eyes have begun playing tricks on him. Spots of light seem to appear out in the darkness. In the shadows he thinks he might see a figure in one of the trees across the clearing. 

Suitably ill at ease, Bran resists the urge to squeeze is eyes shut, and waits desperately for Robb to wake. 

When he finally does, Bran thanks all the Gods, and tries to sleep. He barely makes it, when suddenly Robb is shaking him awake. It’s very early morning, only the tiniest hint of sunlight making it through. 

And while there’s no figure crouching in the trees, there is a spot of lantern light across the horizon. It’s not coming closer though, it’s just hovering. 

“Who are you?” Robb yells out into the semi-darkness. He doesn’t sound terribly lordly right now, but Bran doesn’t feel it either. 

A figure emerges, holding the lantern in one hand, and a sharpened spear in the other. Bran can see that it’s a young woman, around Robb’s age, dressed in scale-leather, dark hair tied in a single braid. 

She walks to them with confidence, and her spear clutched tight. 

“I am Lady Meera, of House Reed. You are out of your place. State your reasons to be in our lands.”

Suddenly all the fear leaves Robb’s voice.

“Robb and Brandon, of House Stark. The section of the Kingsroad we were on is washed out, and we got lost. “

Meera looks them both over. She reminds Bran of Arya in a way, a similar wildness to her. He also notices that she’s rather beautiful, in a similarly wild way. She loosens her grip on her spear. 

“My father, Howland Reed, spoke highly of your father.”

“And ours of yours”. 

Meers nods to them. 

“Follow me. You’re far from the Kingsroad, but we know other ways through the Neck. We’ll let you rest up and then get you on your way. 

As Bran and Robb begin to follow Meera through the swamp, Bran notices several other people emerging from the darkness of the night. Several people in the dress of the Crannogmen, both on the ground and in the trees. Suddenly, last night seemed more normal. 

And soon his gaze shifted back to Meera, leading them through the marsh. 

Robb watches him warily. 

“God’s above, Bran,” he thinks, “Not you too.”


	3. The First Warm Day

Arya hadn’t been sure how she would like living as far south as Storm’s End. The North, with Winterfell and it’s heavy snows and deep dark forests was part of her blood. But after a few weeks in their new home, and Arya felt she could definitely get used to it. 

Gendry wasn’t as fond of the heavy rains as she was, but he liked the ocean. That was probably why on that morning, he had elbowed her awake, with an

“Arya. The rain has finally stopped.”

Arya sits up in bed, blinking to rid her eyes of sleep. When she recognizes the sun shining past the oil cloth covering the small window on the other side of the room, she throws off the checked quilt and moves to get up. 

“Can you put the kettle on? We’ll have porridge for breakfast, but I want to take my bath first.”

Gendry pokes the coals back to life, and pulls the kettle from it’s spot on the window before putting it over them. Arya fills a cup of oats and adds them to the water as it starts a rolling boil. She was no fine cook, but porridge was easy. 

And, she thought smugly, this was one domestic art that Sansa had known little about too.

When she opens the door, the sunshine streams down in front of her. Everything in the Stormlands it seemed, was forever green from the rain. She unstakes the oil cloths from the two small windows, letting the sunshine through the whole place. 

She checks the large wooden tub to the right of the door, under the window. It was nearly full. Good. The little dwelling Renly had said they could make theirs was humble to be sure, stout and stone and only really a single room- though it did have a half wall separating their bed from the kitchen and table- and hardly any bigger than her own chambers back at Winterfell. Arya still loved it to bits. And it was surrounded by a multitude of useful things, that Renly had tried to apologize for as “junk”.

Like the tub and barrels that functioned wonderfully to collect rainwater so she didn’t have to haul herself down the hill to the well. 

Arya strips halfway out the door, and grabbing the block of soap and a rag, climbs into the tub. The water was a bit chilly, but she could handle it. She was a northerner after all. 

“Should I stand guard to make sure no one sneaks up on the fair maiden in the river?” Gendry asks her sardonically. Arya snorts and splashes him.

“Be my guest. Hell, bring your breakfast out here and sit if you must.”

He does that actually, dragging out a chair to sit beside the tub and eat his porridge. 

Not that anyone could have snuck up on them. The house was on the very edge of the Storm’s End keep’s lands, outside the town and away from the castle. It seemed neglected to be true. The ground in front of the house sloped down rather sharply and was littered with broken wagon wheels, rusted tools and empty sacks half buried. And behind them was the edge of a damned cliff. Gendry had hung a bracket above their bed where Arya kept Needle shelved, and she felt this was a good arrangement. 

Just another in the list of things Arya’s sister would have hated about her new life. 

When Arya’s scrubbed off, she stands and shakes off before climbing out of the tub, 

“You want a turn?”

Gendry shakes his head. 

“I come home dirtier than I am now. Plus, unlike you, I don’t think diving into ice water is a good way to start the day.”

Arya laughs at him. Southern born indeed, it was warmer here now than Winterfell often was even in the summer, despite the frequent storms. Arya dresses, and throws the thick black cloth she’d removed from their bed the first day, and throws it over the tub, to let the sun warm it. 

She gets her porridge and sits beside Gendry in the front. 

“What’s on your plate for today?” She asks. 

He licks his spoon clean from his last bite. 

“More horses probably. I’ve never shod so many horses in my life. “

The forge in town was quite large, as it had four smiths working there now and often took overflow projects from the castle blacksmith, but the town had no farrier. 

“You’ll get something fun to make soon,” Arya promises him. 

Gendry shrugs her concern off. 

“Horses still put food on the table, and their owners are usually grateful.”

He stands to pull his boots on, and takes his pack. 

“I’ll get a bowl in town for lunch. Please no more seagull for dinner.”

Arya rolls her eyes. To think he was the picky one. She hadn’t even known you could eat seagull before she’d snared one two nights before and roasted it. Sure, she wasn’t the greatest at making food tasty yet, but she could keep the two of them fed. 

Gendry grabs her face and kisses her once, twice, before leaving. That leaves her with a silly grin. She watches him walk away. The towns and villages here are filled with fewer people, despite the fertility of the land. Gendry does better without the crowds, she thinks. He’s got some color to his cheeks now.

She does the breakfast dishes in a bucket she fills from one of the other rain barrels, all three of them. After she’s done, she ponders how to spend the rest of her day. She should sweep the floor, but that took all of five minutes for a place this size.

She could go down to the town. They already had flour and oats, and enough milk, cheese and eggs for a few days in the cool cellar. Mya had said she was setting off for the Red Mountains today, but maybe Arya could head to the shore and try and befriend some more of the wives in the fisherman’s cottages. They were often lonely with their husbands gone. One of them had told her she’d teach her to make a crab trap. It wasn’t good fishing season yet, but maybe she could net something for dinner out of the ocean. She should try the bread again, a slightly different mix of flour, salt and yeast, this time. The last time had been brittle, but she could get closer this time. 

All the bulbs Maester Aaroc had given her she’d planted. The rusted shovel from back by the outhouse had turned the soft ground with ease, and she’d buried the potatoes, beets, yams and carrots, but none of them had sprouted as of yet. 

She’d been so proud of it afterwards. 

The blackberry vine creeping over the back of the house needed no maintenance. Aaroc had told her that as long as they liked blackberries, they would have them, as the vine was, as he put it, “practically a blight in terms of our ability to be rid of it”. 

Maybe she would get lucky and some of the children from nearby would come to investigate again. So many of them had been intrigued by the holdfast’s new arrivals, some of them even moreso when they discovered Arya owned and could use a sword. 

One of the fisherman’s daughters had told her that there was a Lady, an actual noble woman, in Renly’s rainbow guard. She told Arya this with a tone of longing in her voice that Arya had recognized deep down. And so she’d told her that if she could find her two sticks of fair heft, than she would teach any of them who wanted the basic forms and movements. The next day an even bigger group had shown up. 

She had seen the Lady Brienne, with the rest of Renly’s guard, when he had come to greet them, and the envy that had swelled up in her throat had nearly been overwhelming. And the disparaging comments from some of the other men, even some ones who had been traveling with Edric and them, had enraged her. But Renly had treated her with casual respect, and so she quieted down. 

Arya still wasn’t sure what she thought of Renly. The colors his guard, and himself too, wore struck her as a bit garish, and the man too, seemed to be all about show. But he’d greeted Gendry and Mya warmly, and had extended all courtesies while he had the maester and stewards get them settled. 

Maester Aaroc had helped take them out of the courtyard, where the steward would show them to the house. He had expressed interest in Lyanna, as Storm’s End had only the more traditionally trained ravens. 

Arya had said she would go over with him how her and Luwin had trained her. But first, she had to ask, 

“You’re supposed to be the wise one around here. Why do you think Renly wants all of his brother’s bastards in Storm’s End?”

The older man had laughed softly at her accusing tone. 

“The young Lord is the youngest brother, and he is...unlikely to grow a family in the traditional manner...so I believe he wants all his options keep close to the chest.”

“And, what? He wants a bunch of spares handy so he can dump responsibility on them?”

The old man nods quietly, and Arya quietly fumes.

And since then, Renly hadn’t paid them any nevermind. 

She toyed with Needle a bit, considering. Maybe she would train one of the Stormlands’ future knights, one of these days. 

And then she giggles to herself. She’s never truly had the whole day in front of her for her choosing like this before. 

Her decision ends up being made for her when she notices a small figure bounding up the side of the hill towards her. 

As it gets closer, Arya realizes that the figure she had assumed was Dot (the knight watcher) or one of the other fisher children, was in fact Shireen Baratheon. 

Arya had been surprised to be introduced to her, not having expected there to be any people younger than her in court. She had been fostered here, Renly spoke, since her father had become Hand of the King and her mother in Dragonstone fallen ill. Though marked by the reminder of the grayscale she’d been blighted by in early childhood, the girl’s boundless good will had endeared her to everyone. Mya had already promised to let her ride the mules when she returned to the keep, and she had already paid several visits to Arya and Gendry. The girl had no particular interest in swords or arrows, but she was eager to share her books and stories of great adventures with anyone who would listen. 

“Shireen!” She calls out to her, “What’s the word today?”

Shireen reaches her, panting. She hands her a paper wrapped package. Arya unwraps it, revealing a flower cut to the root. Arya recognizes it as the herb the Maester had given her since she had explained that despite her marriage, she did not yet feel ready for children. 

“Maester Aaroc says that should root easily in a jar in a window, and if you can’t get it to come back, just return to the castle and he can keep you in supply”. 

“Thank you Shireen,” she tells the girl. “But why did you run up here just for that?”

Shireen shakes her head, and Arya finds herself more confused than before. 

“There are two visitors here to see you”. 

Arya sighs deeply outwardly, though inside she is pleased. 

“Tall and handsome, and tall and head-in-the-clouds?”

Shireen nods. 

Arya sighs again. 

“You can bring them”. 

Shireen takes off, and Arya rolls her eyes. There goes her day. She pulls out her and Gendry’s cups. She quickly brews her own tea cold and sucks it down, then fills two more cups with hot, and sits in the doorway waiting. 

Dot shows up first, holding the wooden practice swords, looking excited. With blonde hair and blue eyes, she could grow up to be a great beauty, but she is the only of the children who has shown up every day since they’ve come here. Arya hates to disappoint her. 

“Got guests coming today, Dot. You’ll have to practice by yourself. Do your forms like I taught you”

Dot looks at her disbelievingly, “You just got here, who’s already coming to see you?”

“Just my brothers.”  
“We saw the horses at the gate of the castle earlier. They had the direwolf sigils on.”

Arya nods. 

“So it’s true, you are a Lady.”

Arya laughs and glances around. 

“Maybe, they might be coming to tell me I’m being disowned.”

Suddenly she remembers dinner. She steps inside the house, into the little bag holding the coins Gendry’s received for payment the last few weeks. It’s not a ton, but it’s enough. She fishes out a few coppers and gives them to Dot. 

“Can you go down to the greengrocer and bring me back a few potatoes?”

Dot glances up and down at her. 

“Will I at least get to meet them?”

“If you get back fast enough I’ll even let you spar with my younger brother.”

A smile erupts on Dot’s face and she takes off down the hill. Arya barely has long enough to find where she threw the bones from last night’s seagull and toss them into a pot to boil. She had nearly thrown them out before Gendry had told her that all good soup started with boiled bones. Who would have known?

By the time it’s on the coals, boiling, Shireen’s coming back up the hill with Robb and Bran. Though still dressed in their riding clothes, they both look somewhat worse for wear. The road has clearly taken a toll on them. They’ve both shed their cloaks, and look like their sweating in the ocean air. Arya admits head to toe leather and wool probably isn’t best for summer. When Arya makes eye contact with her, Shireen waves and skips off back towards the castle.

Arya sits in her chair in the doorway, expectantly. She wonders how she looks to them. She’s taken to not braiding her hair at home. She’s still in breeches that used to be Bran’s. A few days ago she’d traded her fur muff (realizing it wasn’t quite as necessary here) for a few men’s linen tunics, which she wore tied with a belt of rope. She’d sliced the arms off with Needle and her arms were beginning to brown. She is freshly bathed though, so that might be new. 

“So am I being dragged back to Winterfell, or just disowned?” She doesn’t seriously believe either is a risk...well the latter has a small chance. 

“Is that anyway to greet your brothers?” Robb replies. Arya ignores him. She hadn’t even called either of them stupid, so this greeting was a step up.

“So how long did it take for Sansa to crack?” Arya smirks. 

“Most of a day,” Bran admits immediately. Arya raises an eyebrow. That’s actually better than she expected. 

“Really shouldn’t count. We didn’t realize you were gone until dinner.”

That actually hurts a tiny bit, but Arya knows she kept strange hours and company, so not too much. She steps inside to grab the two mugs of tea to hand them. Bran takes the moment to peek inside the cottage, seemingly amazed. 

“What’s been taking you two so long? We arrived here nearly a moon ago, and you only left a day and a half behind us.”

Robb cocks an eyebrow. Apparently they hadn’t been terribly well concealed.

“We got lost in the Neck” Bran admits. 

Arya nods. That made sense. The rain had been so heavy then. 

“How long did it take you to get back to the Kingsroad?”

“We didn’t,” That surprises her. It was the only known safe way through the swamps and bogs. 

“We were found by the Lady of House Reed.” Robb explains, the tips of Bran’s ears and the back of his neck suddenly turning red. “They sheltered us until the rain started to let up, then she guided us out on one of the routes only the crannogmen know. We’re not even sure if the Kingsroad is safe again at all.”

“It should be,” Arya comments, “Renly said he sent scouts ahead, because there was a caravan of traders who needed past to start for the Vale.”

Robb’s glancing around the house. It really doesn’t look like much after having grown up in Winterfell. 

“This is where he has you living?”

“I like it,” Arya insists. Robb doesn’t look quite like he believes her. Bran steps closer to her, looking over her neck, wrists, and waist. 

“Well I don’t see any irons holding her,” he says wryly. “Nor does she sound like she’s bewitched. I think we can probably reassure Father and Mother.”

“I still want to talk to Gendry,” Robb says, his face turning harsh. Arya rolls her eyes and points. 

“Forge is about five minutes down the hill and to the left, you can’t miss it. And if you pass a blonde child carrying potatoes, don’t scare her off- those potatoes are mine. And when you find Gendry, don’t do anything stupid, you’re both in public.”

When he’s out of sight, Arya and Bran sit down at the table near the fire. 

“I don’t think he’ll do anything bad to him, “ Bran tells her, “When he read your letter he laughed. He’s just putting off that Father told us to check up on some things in King’s Landing.”

Arya wrinkles her nose. She still did wonder, after seeing Myrcella and Tommen leave. She had hoped it was really nothing. 

“So how was it deep within the Neck?” She asks, changing the subject. The tips of Bran’s ears went red again. 

“Somehow both beautiful and terrifying. The last night we camped alone I thought there were eyes staring at us through the forest. I’m still not quite sure if it was my imagination or Meera’s scouts keeping an eye on us.” 

He calls her Meera, Arya notes. Eager to tease her younger brother, Arya interjects, 

“Jealous of me being the first to wed and hoping to catch up? Father and Mother would probably approve of yours”

Bran turns even redder and starts stuttering. Arya decides to go easy on him. 

“Is it true, the things they say about the crannogmen?”

Bran seems to be able to form full sentences now. “I saw no green teeth and no one breathing water. They are all rather short though, and Greywater Watch is really built on a floating island.”

He lets a long pause sit, as Arya imagines what he’s telling her. 

“And frog isn’t bad, it sort of tastes like poultry. I saw nets and bronze knives, and shields made of leather. Meera carried one too, a lot of the women did. “

He nudges Arya’s shoulder. 

“Maybe you should have been born in a swamp.”

She laughs. Sometimes she thinks about things like that, wonders if she would have been happier to be born somewhere else. But if she had, would she even still be the person she was?

“I was thinking,” Bran says, suddenly, “Before all of this happened, I actually thought about asking Mother and Father to send me to learn to be a Maester.”

Arya cocks an eyebrow at him, “Makes sense, you always were smart and liked all the old stories.”

“I do. But it was more than that. I just could never picture myself marrying.”

Arya laughs, full bellied. 

“Bran, you know my entire life that I have made my feelings on the topic of marriage very clear. Things change, and sometimes you just have to go with it.”

She waits again before asking. 

“Is she pretty?”

Bran smiles when he answers. He’s still very red, hasn’t in fact returned to his natural color yet. 

“Sort of? She’s not pretty like a pretty woman. It’s more like- looking at her is like looking out the window on a sunny morning.”

Dear gods, he sounds like Sansa, is all Arya can think. Maybe she shouldn’t have left her alone with the rest of the family, she was going to rub off on them. Then again, maybe affection turns all men into poets. Gendry had once told her that looking at her made him feel like he was about to take a dive into very deep water. 

Their conversation is interrupted by Dot galloping back up the hill, holding the potatoes in her apron. 

Arya takes them from her. 

“I met your other brother on the way up, he’s cute!” Dot babbles.

“Eyes to yourself, he’s twice your age.”

Arya gestures. 

“This is Dot, her father’s a fishermen, and she’s on the journey to join me and Brienne of Tarth as part of the exclusive guild of women who wield swords.”

Dot practically shoves the practice swords at Bran, bouncing with excitement. 

“Don’t go easy on her, I’ve been teaching her what Syrio taught me.”

While Dot and Bran go back and forth, Arya picks up Needle from its perch, and uses it to cut the potatoes. When she climbs down to the cellar to get the remaining milk and butter, she wonders what Jon would think of finding out what she was using his gift for. 

The soup is hot and bubbly by the time Gendry and Robb appear at the bottom of the hill, apparently no worse for the wear. Bran and Dot have finally yielded, and are both breathing hard on the grass. Dot only managed to get a single hit off on Bran, but to her credit, she keeps getting back up. 

Arya greets Gendry with “All parts still attached?”

“I think we’ve come to an understanding,” is how Robb puts it. Gendry only looks a little pale, so Arya doesn’t prod. 

Gendry hands over his day’s earnings. A small chunk of cheese, a string of sausages and a small group of copper coins. She stows them. Arya is about to tell Dot to go on ahead home, when the girl lets out a huge squeal, and using the window as a stepping stone, climbs onto the cottages roof. 

“There’s a ship coming! It might be my Papa’s!”

And she takes off without another word. 

Arya picks up the practice swords from where they lay on the ground and places them by the window. Then she hoists herself up onto the roof. 

She reaches a hand down to Bran, 

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you pass up climbing something.”

The roof fits all four of them, though Gendry sticks to the edge, not a confident climber. 

Arya shades her eyes. It does look like a fisherman’s ship. 

“They say spring is one of the only times of year ships can safely port at Shipbreaker’s Bay, so they should be coming in for the next several weeks.”

“This is a really great view,” Robb admits. 

“Renly said this building used to be as tall as the castle.” Arya muses, remembering back to what he’d told them that first day. “They used to light an oil fire in the top, to warn ships that there was shore, so they wouldn’t hit the rocks.”

“What happened to the rest of it,” Bran wants to know.

“Storm took it out. “ Gendry says. He had looked vaguely terrified to hear the tale. “A ship got pulled by the wind all the way over the shore and collided. Took out all but what’s left.”

“Not entirely true, they did cover up the hole in the roof”. 

Robb looks suddenly uneasy. “Are they sure the rest of it’s safe?” 

“That was near on forty years ago.” Arya says, “And ships don’t attempt to port here in bad weather anymore. Too many ships and lives lost.”

It is a wonderful view, even as the ship sails out of view, the late afternoon sun turns the water a million colors, all shifting and drifting with the nearly glassy sea. 

Eventually Arya’s stomach growls, and she climbs down to pour the soup. They only have the two bowls, so her and Gendry eat theirs from the tea mugs. It’s not perfect, it needs something, bacon maybe, Arya thinks, trying to remember the potato soup the cooks at Winterfell had made when the winter was it’s coldest. 

Bran and Robb eat theirs with trepidation. Arya rolls her eyes extra hard. She has to, she’s not going to be able to anymore.

“If I was going to poison you, I wouldn’t bother making it taste good.”

“Who says we’re assuming you meant to?” Robb japes.

She hits him with the back of the wooden spoon for that. 

After they’ve finished the pot, Robb says they have to be getting on. 

“Don’t the door hit you on the way out, and enjoy the rest of your night with the Lord of ugly capes,” is what Arya says, after hugging them both multiple times.

“And send me a raven if Mother and Father say yes,” she whispers to Bran. 

She stands at the door, and watches as they walk down the hill. It’s nearly dark already. 

She clears the dishes, and smothers the flames down to embers and Gendry takes his bath. Arya reaches in to touch the water, the cloth did it’s work, it’s very warm.  
“Is there anyone else who might come and interrupt us again?” Gendry asks as he laces the breeches he wears in bed.

Arya’s laying back on top of the quilt in her shift, and she responds by grabbing his hand and pulling him atop her. 

“Well if there is, they’re going to get an eyeful.”

Gendry grins, and presses a kiss to her throat, then lower. One of his hands pulls her shift up over her hips and lifts one of her thighs onto his shoulder. 

Later, when they’re both sated and sweaty, Gendry asks, 

“Is there anything you need to get done tomorrow?”

Arya shakes her head. Her face is pressed into the side of Gendry’s neck, one of her arms wrapped around her. 

“We need milk and butter, but that’s easy. And if that was her father’s ship, Dot won’t show up. Why?”

“I want you to come to the forge with me.”

That gets Arya’s attention. She props herself up on one elbow to look at him. 

“How come?”

“Renly takes his taxes in arrowheads. Liester was telling me it used to take up at least half of his time, just making them, no matter the rest of the orders he had to fill. We’re not at war now, so Renly doesn’t ask as many, but it’s still time consuming.”

Arya’s still confused, “So what did he do?”

“He taught his wife to make them. He says she’s as handy with a hammer as any boy.”

Arya’s now astonished. This is something that’s never even occurred to her. Women took up trades of course, but not highborns, and not usually young women. This isn’t something she would have ever even thought to imagine.

“Besides, it would be good for you to know how to do basic smithing, in case something ever happens to me.”

Arya reaches out and pins one of his wrists. 

“Don’t you go talking about dying. It’s spring now.”

“I won’t. I won’t die, just because you said so.”

Good, Arya thinks, settling her head back beside his.

She stares up at the ceiling. She imagines the stars beyond it, and wills Lyanna to fly faster. 

She already has so much more to tell Sansa.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ending brought to you by my millionth rewatch of a Knight's Tale and remembering my 7th grade history teacher telling us that the female blacksmith was, in fact, completely historically accurate.


End file.
